


Let It Breathe

by ratcrimes



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Service Kink, Tattoo Aftercare, hicks is the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratcrimes/pseuds/ratcrimes
Summary: Turned out tattoos in the middle of your back were hard to take care of. TK hadn't thought that far ahead.Nolan hooked his arm behind his back, wiggled it around a bit. Yeah, he could see the issue. “You do have T-Rex arms.”
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 32
Kudos: 439





	Let It Breathe

“If this is about your tattoo again, Travis, I swear to God,” said Nolan, head thunking back against his couch. He’d helped TK decide to get it at the end of last season, mostly by going _hmmm _and nodding whenever TK brought it up; he’d seen the artist’s drawing before the appointment, gotten all eight million progress pictures over the course of the evening. A couple hours before TK had sent Nolan a picture of the finished product: a realistic twelve-point buck’s head with its antlers curving up to TK’s shoulder blades, black ink haloed by flushed-red skin, the most hick thing Nolan had ever seen.

TK had been looking over his shoulder, throwing an exhausted little smile to whoever was holding the camera—probably the artist, taking pics for Instagram.

_Hurt like a motherfucker :) _he’d captioned right above his shorts on the snap he sent the team. The one he’d sent Nolan didn’t have that, just a clear view of the muscle around his waist. Nolan was trying not to read anything into it.

On the other end of the line there was silence, and then a sheepish, “Weeeeeeeell—”

Nolan groaned.

“—I need help.”

Nolan sat up.

TK didn’t ask for help all that much, unless you counted shit like making Nolan order takeout because he was too lazy to get up. The last time he’d asked Nolan for any kind of real help he’d been coming off a bad knee sprain and Sanny had been out of town. He hadn’t even asked Nolan to come along with him to the tattoo appointment, which bothered Nolan more than it probably should. “What happened.”

“I’m supposed to take the wrap off now and wash it and moisturize and stuff. Only I can’t like. Reach all of it.”

Nolan hooked his arm behind his back, wiggled it around a bit. Yeah, he could see the issue. “You do have T-Rex arms.”

“Fuck you, I’m proportionate.”

“Sure, bud.”

Usually TK would make a dick joke right around then, but the tattoo must have taken a lot out of him. “Listen, can you just come over here and help with the aftercare? I’ll let you drink my beer.”

It was late, a little after eleven. Nolan rolled off the couch and went to grab his toothbrush and phone charger. “Will you buy me breakfast in the morning too? ‘Cause you gotta do the same thing like, three or four times a day for the next couple days.” And then once or twice a day for the next two weeks at minimum. At least TK had thought ahead enough to get it done before training camp. Not by much, but he would be done leaking ink and well into the itching-like-hell phase by the time they had to suit up.

TK huffed into the phone, like he’d forgotten about that part. Nolan wanted to give him shit but tattoos wiped his brain, too. They were used to hurting, used to being tired, but trying to keep your whole body from tensing up against the pain for hours was a different kind of exhausting. Once after a two-hour session Nolan had forgotten how to do math—he planned to tip 20% and somehow that turned into leaving a $20 tip on three hundred dollars’ worth of work. He’d had to call the shop the next day and leave a real tip. TK’s new piece had taken way more than two hours, going by the timestamps.

“Sure, bud,” TK said. “I’ll buy you breakfast too.”

Nolan shoved on his rattiest sneakers. “Be there in a minute.”

* * *

TK’s fancy new place in Jersey was unlocked as usual. Something about having a house instead of an apartment made TK act like he was living in the country again. Nolan kicked off his sneakers and turned on the security system behind him. “Where are you?” Nolan yelled. The house was weirdly quiet. Most of the time he could find TK by following the phantom strains of Luke Bryan.

“Couch,” TK called back.

The living room lights were off, and when Nolan flicked on the lamp he saw TK lying on his stomach, head buried in a throw pillow. He was wearing basketball shorts and nothing else, unless you counted the plastic taped to his back and the trucker cap perched on top of his head. When TK turned his head to look at Nolan the cap fell off onto his arm.

“Tired, huh,” Nolan said.

“Little bit.” TK held out his arm and flopped it around until Nolan grabbed his wrist, let TK use him to lever off the couch. “_Fuck _that hurts. Did you know you use your back muscles to do like, fucking everything? I couldn’t even drive, Beezer had to take me home. My car’s still at the studio.”

Nolan let TK shuffle ahead of him to the master bathroom. He’d never been _that _bad off after a tattoo but he’d never gotten one that big either. “Beezer was there?”

“Just for the end. He said he wanted to see if I cried, I think he’s thinking about getting a piece.”

“Asshole,” said Nolan. And then, “Did you?”

TK shrugged. “Little bit, on the spine parts—the rest wasn’t so bad.”

Nolan looked at the deer’s eyes through the layer of wrinkly plastic wrap. Hard to see the linework like this, but. “It’s sick.”

“Right?” TK said happily.

The bathroom light was already on when TK opened the door. He’d set up a roll of paper towels, a full bottle of antibacterial soap, and a palm-sized tub of what looked like aftercare goo by the sink. TK braced himself on the counter, facing the mirror. “Alright, you know the drill, bud?”

“I dunno, I’ve only done this like eight times.” Bitching at TK was a lot easier than thinking about what he was about to be doing. Nolan reached for the little tub. _Hustle Butter, _the label said. He glanced at the instructions, _apply a thin layer over the clean tattoo_—so like, the same thing he did with Aquaphor and lotion. Not rocket surgery.

“Just checking,” TK said with a shrug.

Surgical tape held the wrap loosely in place at the corners of TK’s shoulders and either side of his ribcage. Nolan pulled them off and crumpled the plastic, threw it in the trash. TK’s skin was shiny with lymph and whatever aftercare stuff they’d put on it at the studio. In person the linework was more vivid; he could see little crusty patches of blood, smears of ink. When he looked back up TK was watching him in the mirror.

“Okay. I’m gonna…” He pushed at TK’s hip, and TK moved out of the way so he could wash his hands. Nolan nearly wiped them on his joggers before he remembered to use the paper towels. He was doing great at this hygiene thing. “Probably easier to do this in the bathtub.”

TK blinked and scrubbed at his eyes. “Oh. Yeah.” He grabbed the soap and went to sit at the edge of the tub. Nolan fiddled with the faucet until he could get the water to run lukewarm. TK had left a stool in the shower from the last time he’d been injured; Nolan pulled it up and smacked the surface until TK got the hint and sat there, back to the faucet. Nolan rolled up his joggers to his knees and took TK’s place on the rim of the bathtub.

“Did you eat something?” Nolan asked. TK was even more withdrawn right now than he got post-game; it was weird to see. Not that he never got quiet—he’d always had his moments no matter how much shit Nolan gave him, and he’d mellowed out even more the last couple years—but this was something else. It put Nolan in the weird position of wanting to fill the quiet. He felt too wired not to.

“I had a protein bar halfway through. And they gave me some peanut butter crackers and water after. Real preschool-ass shit.”

“You are a preschooler.” Nolan soaped up his hands and cupped water between his palms. “Alright, heads up,” and he dumped the whole thing right over the deer’s head. He braced one hand on TK’s shoulder and ran the fingertips of the other over the deer. The skin there felt fever-warm, and TK tensed but relaxed quickly. “Good?”

“Yeah.” TK squirmed, looked down at his knees. “Feels kinda nice.”

Nolan shook him a little by the shoulder, wondered if the water was hot enough to justify how red he knew his face must be. At least TK couldn’t really see him like this. He scrubbed little circles of water and soap across the tattoo. The suds came up black and ran with tiny dark streams of blood and ink down TK’s back, into the waistband of his shorts. Nolan made himself not slow down, splashed a little more water and soap across the antler at TK’s far shoulder. He was still too quiet. He should at least be bitching about getting his shorts wet. “You think you’re gonna get another one?”

TK snorted. “This big? Fuck no.”

Nolan had said that after his first tattoo, until he forgot how much it smarted. “Your spine is like, the worst place to get shit done anyway, right? So whatever you get after this is gonna be easier even if it is big.” Unless it was on his ribs or something, maybe. Inside of his elbows or knees. But that still left a lot of real estate.

TK shrugged. “Could get a tramp stamp next.” From the corner of his eye Nolan saw him smirk. He couldn’t look right at it. “Gonna help me with that one too, Pats?”

“If you get a tramp stamp I’m never talking to you again.” Nolan thumped him hard at the small of his back, but that just got a snicker.

“Aw, c’mon. I’d totally help _you _do aftercare on a tramp stamp.”

Nolan knew that. TK helped him with a lot. He’d washed Nolan’s hair for him once when Nolan was having a shitty migraine week, during that really shitty season where he felt like he’d never play NHL hockey again, and Nolan still thought about it sometimes. He didn’t want to think about TK’s fingers rubbing gentle wet circles on his lower back, at least not while they were in the same room. He didn’t want to think about what _he _was doing. “You’re not touching my tramp stamp.”

“That hurts, babe.”

Nolan made a noise that meant, roughly, _sucks to suck._ Finished up with the other antler and used a few more palmsful of water to rinse the suds off. TK grimaced as more water ran into his shorts and hopped up as soon as Nolan turned the faucet off, leaned against the counter again.

The ends of TK’s hair were damp and Nolan swept them over one shoulder before grabbing a fistful of paper towels and dabbing the ink dry. If it was still wet when the aftercare stuff went on, TK would end up with big wet scabs that pulled out all the ink and tore off too easy. A big piece like this, he might need to get it touched up after it was done healing anyway, but Nolan didn’t want to make it any worse. When he was done, he tossed the paper towels vaguely in the direction of the trash can and reached for the Hustle Butter.

“Smells good,” TK said as soon as Nolan twisted the cap off.

Nolan grunted in agreement. It was sweet and herby, not too strong, and when he scooped out some of the ointment with his fingertips it felt a little like Vaseline.

“They sell branded camo snapbacks, too,” said TK. “I looked ‘em up in case I need to buy more.”

Nolan looked up from the tip of the left antler. “Tell me you didn’t.”

TK grinned and shrugged. Nolan made a disgusted noise and smeared the ointment down the antler. “I didn’t, though. Maybe if they had a better name but fuckin’—Hustle Butter, Jesus.”

“Thank God,” Nolan said.

Under the bright lights above the sink it was easy to see the bruising around the edges where the ink was thickest, purpling out further along the thin skin over TK’s spine. Nolan pressed harder than he meant to along one; TK squirmed. Nolan’s face felt hot and when he looked up at himself in the mirror he could see how red he was getting. TK was looking back again, and when he caught Nolan’s eye he blinked and looked back down at the sink, too fast.

“I could get a walleye next. Maybe a pike.”

Nolan laughed; it echoed around the bathroom tile. “_Je-_sus. What about a fishing pole? Or a rifle while you’re at it? Get a fuckin’ boat, dude, that can be your tramp stamp—”

“Like you’re any better, Mr. Chick-With-Her-Tits-Out Tattoo. At least I’m fuckin’ classy_,_” but he started giggling halfway through _classy, _couldn’t even finish the word.

Nolan snorted and slapped TK’s flank. “It’s art, man, it’s like Renaissance shit. Stay still, I’m almost done.” He finished spreading the ointment up the deer’s other antler, even though TK kept bursting into giggles at his own not-really-a-joke every few seconds. This stage of TK exhaustion was familiar, at least; it reminded Nolan of three-AM plane rides. When the tattoo looked shiny all over and he’d smoothed out the thicker layers, Nolan stepped back. “Alright, you’re good.”

TK rolled his shoulders and winced as he straightened up. “You’re a lifesaver, Pats.” Nolan shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets, tilted them out a little. Thankfully TK wasn’t really looking at Nolan as he pushed open the door to his bedroom. “Seriously—I owe you one. I’m about to pass out but you can do whatever, the guest bedroom’s set up already.”

“It wasn’t—”

Nolan didn’t mean for his voice to come out sharp but it did, and TK turned back to look at him with a little frown between his eyebrows. Nolan huffed; his face burned and he took a breath, tried to reset. “You take care of me all the time. So. You don’t owe me shit.”

“I didn’t mean it like that?” TK’s head tilted so he looked more like a confused puppy than a kicked one. “And I don’t do _that _much, man, it’s not—”

“Yeah, you do,” said Nolan. It probably wouldn’t sound like much if he listed it all out, but he knew how TK—_managed _him wasn’t the right word but it wasn’t the wrong word either. He always knew when Nolan was in one of his moods, had done since Nolan’s rookie year when he spotted him scowling after a botched drill and spent the next twenty minutes trying to get him to laugh.

Nolan kind of loved him for it, and he tried not to think about it too much. Only his fingers were still slick with that stupidly-named aftercare stuff and he’d just spent twenty minutes, like, rubbing on TK. He kind of felt like he was done waiting to see if something would happen, if TK would do something. He kind of thought maybe he could do something instead.

“Look,” Nolan said, at the same time TK said, “Patty,” hands out and placating, like he thought Nolan was mad.

The wet ends of TK’s hair had fallen back over his shoulder. Nolan stepped forward and swept them to the side again. “It’ll drip on the tattoo,” he said, and TK blinked back up at him, and Nolan cupped his hand around TK’s neck and kissed him.

TK melted. Wrapped his arms around Nolan like that was all that was keeping him up and kissed back. He tasted like peanut butter crackers and when he pulled away after a minute Nolan chased after him. TK giggled, sounding delirious as Nolan felt, and let Nolan kiss him again—once, twice, soft little pecks.

“Baby, I’m really about to pass out,” TK murmured. He seemed as oblivious to how Nolan reacted to being called _baby _as he had been since they met. “But like. Really? We’re doing this?”

It took Nolan a second to realize it was a question. He nodded, too fast. “Yeah, I mean—I want to. For a while.”

TK giggled again. “For like, forever, Pats,” he said solemnly, and patted Nolan’s cheek.

Nolan got the feeling that he’d lost the plot a little. He didn’t really mind.

“You can hog the blankets, ‘cause otherwise they’ll stick to the tattoo,” TK promised.

* * *

In the morning Nolan woke up first. TK was laying on his stomach, the sheets pulled down to his waist. He looked like he hadn’t moved all night.

When Nolan came back from the bathroom TK blinked up at him, foggy and confused like he didn’t quite know why Nolan was there. But he beamed when Nolan slipped back into bed.

“Hey,” Nolan said.

“Hi.” TK started to roll up on his side, then winced and collapsed back down onto his stomach with a pained laugh. “Fuck, I forgot.”

Nolan snorted. He leaned over and TK got the message, pushed up just enough to kiss him back. The angle was weird but TK still shivered when Nolan ran his fingertips down TK’s spine, from his neck right up until the top of the tattoo. Nolan broke off and pushed right between TK’s shoulder blades, _stay still. _Then he swung his knee over TK’s hips.

“Pats?” TK started.

Nolan carefully didn’t touch TK’s back as he arched forward and kissed his neck. “Stay there, okay?” he said, and wrapped his hands around TK’s hips. “Gonna take care of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> can y'all believe there are only 3 other tattoo aftercare fics on this site? with all these tattoo parlor aus? c'mon, AO3. comments and kudos are, as always, much appreciated.
> 
> Hustle Butter is real and I love it. so are their camo snapbacks. sadly they did not sponsor this fic.
> 
> **eta:** [did a director's commentary!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045182/chapters/63340432#workskin)


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